Morley Torgov - Murder in A-Major

“It was both,” Clara said, “but it was also greed. In his anxiety to make certain he collected every possible pfennig for his labour and material, he made the mistake of listing the A-string replacements. As soon as I read the list, I realized in a flash that something foul was going on.”

I asked, “When did you first see the list?”

“After everyone had departed, the night of the musicale, Robert flew into one of his worst tantrums. Naturally, he was outraged by Liszt's patronizing response to our music. He was angry with me because he felt that I hadn't adequately supervised the tuning of the Klems or at least tested it after Hupfer was finished. He professed again and again that the A sound was constantly ringing in his ears. I'm ashamed to admit that I finally resorted to giving him a tumbler of schnapps large enough to put a regiment to sleep. It worked. Then I came back down to Robert's study, found Hupfer's list and request for payment. As soon as I saw the last item…well, you can imagine the rest.”

“May we return, then, to the matter of Hupfer's tuning fork?” I said.

“Ah yes, the tuning fork. I did warn you, Inspector, that we would have to go back in time.”

She moved to the Klems and stood at the keyboard. “Let me show you something,” she said. Raising her right hand head high, she suddenly plunged it downward, striking A above middle C with her index finger with such force that the resulting sound pierced the air like a scream, causing me to wince. It was the kind of attack that would have shaken no less a fortress than a full-size Bosendorfer. “Now watch again, please,” she said. Again her right hand ascended, this time slightly above her head, then descended even more forcefully, the index finger drilling into the same ivory key like a meteor biting into rock. But instead of the note sounding, there was a loud snap.

“My God, what was that?” I cried.

Her smile was almost triumphant. “ That ,” Clara said, “is the sound of a piano string breaking loose from its tuning pin.”

“Very impressive,” I said, somewhat amused. “How often do you do this kind of thing?”

She shook her head. “I leave such antics to Franz Liszt,” she replied. “Every time Liszt causes a piano string to pop, a million female hearts pop. Women love masculine displays of that sort. But let me get to the point of all this, Inspector. I fear I'm taking up too much of your time.”

“Yes, please. The point-”

“When a string is new, it tends to stretch. If the piano hasn't had the benefit of several thorough re-tunings so that the new string can settle in, an extra-hard strike can cause it to snap. As you've just witnessed, even a seasoned string may react the same way. Sunday morning, after I'd perused Hupfer's statement of account and become suspicious, I needed an excuse to summon him.”

“On Sunday? Wouldn't that be unusual?”

“Yes, of course. But I made it sound like a matter of life and death. Also, I made a point of mentioning that his latest bill would be paid at the same time, together with any additional charges, just to sweeten his Sabbath.”

“And your excuse for sending for him?”

“I did just what you saw me do, Inspector. I delivered a blow to his newly-installed A string that could be heard from one end of Düsseldorf to the other.”

“And the string snapped?”

“Like a dry twig. Well, it turned out that Willi was able to re-attach the string, which I suppose is a tribute to his skill, because a factory-made string might not have survived the experience. Then, out comes Willi's tuning fork, because the string must be re-tuned, following which he deposits the fork in his tool satchel. I insist that he stay for a slice of warm strudel, his favourite. While he's distracted in the dining room, I suddenly remember something I've left behind in the parlour. His satchel lies open next to the Klems. I locate the tuning fork, pocket it, and close the satchel. After Hupfer's departure, I test the tuning fork and the new string. Need I say more, Inspector?”

“You left the tuning fork concealed under Adelmann's body hoping that it would be traced to Hupfer. In other words, you acted with all the forethought and craftiness of a hardened criminal…or so you would have me believe.”

“You needn't sound so skeptical, Inspector,” Clara said. “You happen to be perfectly correct.”

“And your reason for going to Adelmann's apartment in the first place?”

“Why, I should think my reason was obvious. I wanted him to delete from his monograph that filth about Robert. At first, I asked him very politely to do so. That was met by a refusal, some lame excuse about not wanting to compromise his precious integrity as a journalist. I tried reasoning with him. When reasoning failed, I tried pleading. Pleading too failed. I humbled myself and resorted to begging. He laughed in my face, then made some lewd remark about my relationship with Johannes Brahms and accused me of being hypocritical, attempting to shield Robert's reputation with one hand while cheating on him with the other. Finally, I demanded that he not publish the offensive parts of the monograph. Again he laughed in my face. That was Georg Adelmann's last laugh.”

I sat back in my chair staring at the woman, shaking my head from side to side, at a loss for words. Finally, I said, “I did not come here expecting to listen to what I can only call an incredible confession.”

“Then why did you come?”

“To warn you.”

“Warn me? About what?”

“About the fact that Adelmann's monograph is missing and may well have gotten into the wrong hands. You may have to prepare yourself for-”

“For a scandal?”

I said, “You seem strangely resigned about all this, almost indifferent. Have I not made myself clear? I mean, if these events become public knowledge-”

Without replying, Clara rose from her chair, took several steps across the drawing-room and stopped before a massive mahogany armoire that occupied the better part of one wall and stood at least a half-metre taller than she. From a pocket of her frock she removed a large brass key, which she used to unlock the armoire, its two heavy doors falling open like the doors of a tabernacle, revealing shelves crammed with what appeared to be music manuscripts, notebooks, thick orchestral scores and some ancient-looking textbooks. Pointing to the uppermost shelf whose contents were barely visible, she called to me, “I need your assistance, Inspector.”

At her request I reached up and brought down a package wrapped in a carefully folded linen cloth and securely tied with a black silk ribbon.

“ Voilà! ” she quietly said, presenting me with the package. “You see, Inspector Preiss, I told you the truth. It was I who went to Adelmann's rooms, I who killed him, I who found and removed the monograph you now see before you. I trust you no longer find my account incredible.”

“Despite what you say,” I protested, “it could have been your husband. After all, he was capable of doing exactly what you insist you did.”

“Physically capable, yes. But mentally? Never! Robert floated from Eusebius to Florestan to Eusebius to Florestan, on and on in that fashion, the way the tides in the Rhine ebb and flow endlessly. He was like Hamlet; full of determination one minute, completely irresolute the next. It was amazing that he managed to accomplish as much as he did. So, I suppose there is nothing more to say, is there?”

“I'm not certain I agree with you,” I said.

“Now, now, we mustn't be stubborn about this. You have all the evidence you need-the tuning fork, Adelmann's manuscript, my own confession. If you will pardon the pun, there is no need to soft-pedal whatever it is your duty requires you to do now. I'm not Beethoven; the poor man couldn't bring himself to end a piece of music in fewer than twenty bars. I know a finale when I see it. I am ready to face justice. I've made suitable arrangements for the care of our children. As for poor Robert, it's best that he remain distanced from the real world, at least for the time being.”